by Geoff Small
“I trust this is about the murder of Robert McQueen?” Baxter said, rolling every ‘R’ to maximum, pompous effect. “My client has given me a full account of his movements from the time the deceased went missing and until his body was found, and I can assure you, as an officer of the law who has been practising for over thirty years, that he has no case to answer.”
Baxter dropped his sickly, goading grin on Curzon again, before reading out a short, drafted statement on Franklin’s behalf:
“My client wishes to help the Glasgow Police in their inquiries in whatever way he can. However, he is also mindful not to incriminate himself. Last Saturday night he attended a party at the home of Ms Matilda Fuchs in Westbourne Gardens, Glasgow, where he spent the entire evening cooking food on a barbeque on the back lawn. Once he’d finished doing this and had packed his equipment away, it was nearly midnight, when he was quite understandably tired and so returned home to sleep until nine o’clock the following morning. Furthermore, my client knows of no incident or information which can have any relevance to Glasgow Police’s Inquiry and wishes to exercise his right to say nothing further on the matter.”
Mouth shut, Baxter puffed his cheeks out proudly and smiled, so that he resembled a smug little ‘birthday boy’ with a mouth full of cake. Behind this superficial contentment, though, were harmful eyes, dilated with rage and vengeance over the crank call to his advocate in court the previous Friday, which he knew, full well, had been orchestrated by Curzon. If it could have been possible for Baxter to compete any harder against the policeman, then now was the time, and the detective knew that merely providing evidence would not be enough to defeat this wily old tartan fox. In fact, by the look of determined aggression behind the affected smile, Curzon was pretty sure that Baxter was willing to drop however many other balls he may have been juggling in order to keep a tight grip on this one – even if his client were to quite blatantly confide that he was guilty. Mindful of this, the inspector knew he had to strike when and where he could, and so wasted no time homing in on Franklin.
“Mr Franklin, you’re fortunate enough to be able to afford the best representation in the country, to live in a mansion and to be feted and fawned over wherever you go. Because of that, and dare I say it, a certain lack of education, I fear you have lost your grip on reality. This isn’t an episode out of Sherlock Holmes or Poirot where the police conduct their business over tea and scones in wealthy people’s drawing rooms; this is a real life, or should I say, real death, murder case, and so I’m gonna have to ask you to accompany me to the station.” Curzon turned to Baxter. “How long did you say you’d been an ‘officer of the law’ for again? Thirty-five years was it? All I can say is, you must have eaten a lot of infected beef during the early Nineties, coz this,” he pointed at a gobsmacked looking Franklin, “is a local football player, not a head of state, you pompous asshole. In this country, as far as I’m aware, they get treated the same as everybody else, no matter what you and my superiors might think.”
A furious Baxter opened his mouth to protest but Curzon shot him down, calmly and with maximum irritation factor in his manner.
“I’ve got nothing to say to you, you coprophagous maggot.”
Then he let his phone ring out once to the detainment vehicle, which was the cue for Deegan and McKay to come in and assist him.
The detainment vehicle was going to serve a purpose as Curzon’s mobile interview room, because he knew that the moment he arrived at the police station, his superiors – already being phoned by Baxter – would command him to release Franklin. In truth, Curzon had accepted that he wasn’t going to get anything out of the footballer, but he wanted to punish him and his lawyer for their arrogance, thinking they could just summon him to their manor, tell him how it was going to be and then dismiss him like a butler. If Franklin did do it, then he, Curzon, was determined to be his judge, because by the looks of things, nobody else was going to be.
Handcuffed, Franklin was put in the detention cage inside the vehicle, where he was all alone in the twilight for the first minute of the journey, until it stopped at some lights and Curzon climbed out from the front and climbed into the back, locking himself up in the cage and sitting down opposite the celebrity. Thereon, McKay just drove and drove while his inspector subjected the footballer to some psychological needling.
“Mr Franklin, you’ve played in the top flight of professional football for over a decade. Now, that’s no mean feat. You’ve had to shoulder barge your way through hundreds of other ‘teenage boys’ in order to get to youth team level and then you’ve had to be single minded and ruthless enough to claw your way into the big time. That must require an enormous amount of self-belief?”
Franklin responded by nodding, his large Adam’s apple bobbing like a fishing weight, before he sighed deeply, betraying immense nervousness and fear.
“I mean,” Curzon continued, “I’d imagine you’d have to consider yourself special even to embark upon such a journey. It goes without saying really that you’d need to consider yourself better than the rest of us, otherwise you’d be a fraud wouldn’t you, somebody who’s not what they seem, if you see what I’m getting at?” The footballer screwed his face up in confusion. “So what are you Mr Franklin?”
“Sorry?”
“Are you a fraud or do you consider yourself better than the rest of us mortals who’ve donned football shirts at one time or another.”
“Better I suppose…obviously.”
“That’s interesting, Mr Franklin, because you know, a lot of murderers think they’re better than everyone else too…they think they have the right to take other folks lives, because other folk are less worthy than they are…they believe that they are above the rules and laws that govern the rest of us, moral and legal, because ‘they’ – are – special. Is that you Mr Franklin?”
Franklin sighed again, so tremulously it sounded like he was shivering on a cold day.
“But it’s not quite that simple though, Mr Franklin. Interestingly enough, it’s only when these people who think they’re extraordinary commit murders that they learn they are actually frauds, that they have been deluding themselves all along…that they aren’t special after all, because they, thank God, like ninety-nine point nine per cent of mankind, actually feel excruciating guilt for what they’ve done and want to repent. It’s a very humbling thing is murder…In many ways I have more sympathy for the murderer than for his victim, because, let’s face it, it’s over for the victim. But for the murderer, it just goes on and on, this ever increasing burden that they’d give anything to be lightened.” Curzon blew his cheeks out and shook his head as if daunted by just thinking about it. “Yes, I’ve always tried to have compassion for murderers…except for the psychopaths of course, no point feeling sorry for them, they wouldn’t recognise or appreciate it anyway…and they’d certainly never feel sorry for me!”
Curzon laughed out loud and looked at Franklin as if expecting reciprocal amusement. When he eventually stopped, he sighed contentedly and stared into the middle distance, spooking his prisoner in the process.
“Do you know what I’ve found, Mr Franklin? I’ve found it’s the ones who own up without being caught, without having to be confronted with the evidence first that fare better in the long run. Of course, it always plays better with the judge, but, more importantly, yes, they may still be killers, but they at least have their dignity. It’s the sneaking around, the degradation of lying to their fellow men that compounds the misery for those who wait to be proven guilty…that’s almost as difficult to live with later on, once the initial survival adrenaline has worn off. Because, you see, to live the rest of your life without any pride, honour or integrity, is akin to living the rest of your life like a worm. What I’m trying to say is: murderers can still have honour.” And with that he banged on the side of the vehicle three times, causing it to draw to a halt. “I’m going back up front, to give you time on your own to think about that. When I get back in this cage with
you, I’m going to sit in silence for five minutes and give you the opportunity to start proceedings. If you haven’t spoken after that then I’ll have to be rude and blunt and confront you with what I know.”
Curzon stared into Franklin’s eyes with a solid but convincingly compassionate look. For that brief moment, when all that each could see was the other’s eyes, Curzon spoke very slowly and very deliberately.
“Think of the long term. Think of your honour. Think of your soul.”
Then he unlocked the cage and climbed out of the vehicle, repairing to the front seat, where he remained for another ten minutes before being dropped off outside a whitewashed retirement bungalow in the middle class suburb of Newton Mearns, on the southern fringe of the city.
Chapter 15
Deegan and McKay stayed in the vehicle, while Curzon knocked three times at the door of the bungalow. With no one having answered, he walked round the side of the property to the back garden, where a white haired, soft faced lady of eighty was pruning her rose bushes.
“Hello Miss Anderson!”
The old lady turned from what she was doing.
“Ooh…you gave me a fright. It’s enough to give an old woman a coronary.”
She spoke in one of those posh, middle class Scottish accents, over emphasising her R’s.
“Sorry Miss Anderson, but I did knock.”
The old lady, wearing navy blue polyester slacks and a pink summer top, came steadily across the lawn to meet him, removing her gardening gloves as she did so.
“Don’t worry your wee head about it Patrick…I must be going deaf.” She smiled affectionately. “Would you like a cup of tea?”
“That would be very nice Miss Anderson, thank you.”
Curzon spoke in a very soft, well-mannered and considerate tone, a tone reserved for this one old lady and her alone.
The old headmistress at his primary school, Miss Anderson had been the only person in his life that he’d ever liked or trusted. When every other teacher at the school had washed their hands of him, no doubt being repulsed by the mildew smell from his squalid clothes and the stale piss on his puny body, this childless spinster had taken him under her wing, even putting him up in her house when things got really bad at home. Ever since then, right through the higher school, police college and all the way up to now, he’d visited her not only once a fortnight, but always on the eve of the concluding part of a big case. He didn’t know why this was, though suspected that he needed to feel that sense of safety and security in her company in order to give him the courage to take on the responsibility of charging a man with murder. As a child he’d had no self-belief whatsoever; in fact, after years of mental abuse at the hands of a drunken father he was as nervous as a meerkat. But Miss Anderson had cured all that. She’d stroked his delicate head and caressed his slouching back in the cute school jumper she’d bought him, and filled him full of praise at the slightest achievement until he was, though never a sociable creature, at least a confident little misanthrope.
Curzon followed Miss Anderson into her large kitchen and sat down at the round, Formica topped table, listening to her speak as she made tea.
“So, tell me Patrick, what have you been up to? Have you found yourself a nice girl to settle down with yet?”
“No Miss Anderson. The answer’s still ‘no’ just like every other month when you’ve asked me for the past twenty years.”
“Well, I happen to think it would do you good, that’s all.”
She poured hot water from the kettle into two mugs, her own a plain white one, Curzon’s an ancient, chipped specimen with Kojak on the side, a bubble next to his mouth filled with the words: ‘Who loves you baby?’ This was a conduit he’d been drinking from round at her house ever since the age of eight, and the plate of ‘Jammie Dodgers’ cookies she brought to his table along with the tea were also a childhood favourite of the detective’s.
“I do wish you’d find yourself a nice wife,” the old lady persisted.
“No Miss Anderson, the only woman in my life is you, you know that.”
Miss Anderson sat down and placed a liver spotted hand on top of Curzon’s.
“I’m not going to be around for ever my little chicken, and I’d hate to think I’d left you here all alone.”
“Don’t talk like that Miss Anderson, please.”
Curzon looked and sounded genuinely distressed at this, so much so that Miss Anderson felt compelled to stroke his curly hair back with her other hand to comfort him.
“Well, I’d like to know there was somebody good looking after you all the same…I think you’d like that too, only you’re too frightened of opening up for fear of being hurt.”
Curzon, who was now staring down at the table top, eager for some distraction from such a searching topic, rummaged around in the inside pocket of his suit jacket.
“I almost forgot,” he said, producing a pair of pruning secateurs he’d stolen from Alistair Meaks’ shop. “I saw these and thought of you…thought you could use them on the rose bushes.”
“Oh Patrick, what are we going to do with you? I do hope you haven’t taken these from somebody without asking?” She looked at him interrogatively, but with a glint of amusement in her eyes. “Remember when you were a little boy? I was constantly apologising to parents for you taking stuff that wasn’t yours from the other kids. You were like a cat bringing dead mice home.” She started laughing. “And you’ve not changed a bit have you? Why do you do it? You’re cutting your own nose off behaving like this Patrick, pre-empting people’s enmity before they even have a chance to get to know you.”
“There’s no one out there worth knowing Miss Anderson, you’ve got to believe me. If you’d seen a hundredth of the things I have to deal with, you wouldn’t be such a positivist.”
“All the same, it’s such a waste of a life, all this spitefulness you engage in. I should feel flattered that you’ve always been nice to me, I suppose.”
“Indeed. What’s the point in having a nice person be nice to you, it’s worthless, coz they’re nice to everybody and it reflects on you in no way whatsoever. But when a nasty, spiteful person is nice to you, one way or another that’s really got to mean something, right?”
Miss Anderson laughed and rubbed his hair again.
“Oh Patrick, what would we do without you, eh?”
Curzon stayed at Miss Anderson’s for about half an hour, running the salient details of the murder case by her and hanging on the old woman’s every word of advice, without which he never took any major decisions. Once they’d both agreed on what course of action he should take, she gave him a long, warm hug in which he always crumbled like a cookie and had to rush away from afterwards without looking back, for fear of having his tears detected.
Chapter 16
It took Curzon several minutes to wipe away all evidence of his emotions, before climbing back into his transport, where he again sat opposite a by now weary and wary looking Tommy Franklin. After banging out a signal on the side of the cage, the police vehicle pulled off and the detective sat in complete silence in the twilight for five minutes without even making a conspicuous body movement, almost like a waxwork dummy. This made Franklin so uncomfortable that he dropped his head guiltily, unable to face the policeman. Suddenly, bang on the five minute mark, Curzon jolted to as if woken from a trance and smiled congenially at his prisoner, like a bank manager about to grant a loan.
“So you’ve decided to gamble your pride, your honour and your soul on the survival strategy then have you? The ‘keep lying and hope I get out of here’ approach.”
Franklin looked up for a moment but was unable to maintain eye contact with his interrogator, so bowed his head again.
“Do you know what I know about you?” Curzon continued. “I know that you like the company of young boys.”
Franklin’s head suddenly sprang up and he screwed his nose into an affected display of mock perplexity and shock.
“I also know that you made
an unsuccessful sexual pass at Bobby McQueen when he was an apprentice at St. Clyde, and in order to cover your tracks and avoid the embarrassment of having to face the lad again, you fabricated a story about him stealing from the players’ dressing room, so that he got kicked out of the club.”
Curzon looked to one side, shaking his head as if it were genuinely causing him great pain to have to reveal these things, before looking back again to find a very different Franklin - pale now to the point of being white, tears welling up in his eyes.
“You were shocked to see Bobby turn up at Ms Fuchs’ party. I mean, what reason would a young schemie have to be hanging round with the Hyndland set? Fair play to you, even though you’ve not donned a pair of boots for a while now, you were quick on your feet. You darted away from that barbeque area at the speed of light, before the lad had chance to recognise you and ‘out’ you in front of your pals. You hid in the area beneath the front door steps, having one of your sneaky, gold filtered Thai cigarettes, working out your next move. From here you saw Bobby McQueen come storming out, the unfortunate lad being under the misapprehension that he was pursuing young Monika, though she had in fact hidden in her mother’s house. Thinking it safe, you returned to the barbeque. With your sous-chef away consoling Matilda Fuchs in her study, you were all alone until – horror of horrors – Bobby reappeared to retrieve the wraps of cocaine he’d accidentally dropped there. Finally, it was just you and him, for the first time since you’d ruined his career at St. Clyde and ended all hope. You tried to hide yourself, busying around, bent double picking things off the floor behind the grill, but, bugger of all buggers, you’re just too damned distinguishable and he spotted you.” Curzon’s smile actually looked warm now, as if he were reminiscing about something pleasant. He stopped talking and stared gently into Franklin’s eyes for about ten seconds before saying: “Remember me?”
